


[ Plain Text ] Curiouser & Curiouser

by benoitmacon (larvae)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Multimedia, Other, The Magnus Archives Season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/pseuds/benoitmacon
Summary: How cheerfully he seems to grinHow neatly spreads his claws,And welcomes little fishes in,With gently smiling jaws!A PLAIN TEXT reimagining of Season 3 in which The Archivist is taken, not unwillingly, by The Spiral. Updates Sundays.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Melanie King, Jonathan Sims/The Spiral, Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 16
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WilderVoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilderVoid/gifts).
  * A translation of [Curiouser & Curiouser](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614942) by [benoitmacon (larvae)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/pseuds/benoitmacon). 



> I was asked to post a version of this fic without Michael's distorted text. Here, his speech is indicated by ALL CAPS. This version contains no links to multimedia elements. It will be updated concurrently.

This was, by any stretch of the imagination, a bad idea.

 _This is a bad idea,_ Jon told himself forcefully as he walked up the concrete steps from the underground into the midday sunshine of late spring. Admittedly it was the only idea he had, but that didn’t go a long way to making it good. Or sensible. Or practical. Its solitude coupled with the fact that Jon’s mounting restlessness had come to eclipse his paranoid neurosis had driven him to implement it just the same.

He was heading to a cafe near Chelsea. One that, until last summer, was frequented by archival assistant Sasha James on her daily commute. Thyme and Tide Brewery, it was called. Its ninety three Yelp reviews averaged four and a half stars, and made mention of its cozy atmosphere, allergen conscious bakery, and wide selection of herbal teas in addition to its excellent, fairly priced coffee, which came with unlimited refills with the purchase of a baked good. Free wifi was available to guests, and there was ample indoor and outdoor seating, which made it popular among students and aspiring novelists. The building boasted floor to ceiling windows, rustic inspired decor, and an impressive array of well cared for house plants.

Sasha was dead, now. She had been for seven months and change, though Jon had spent seven months ignorant of the fact. He was being framed for her murder, so it wasn’t a good look, skulking around her former haunts in broad daylight.

But, he reminded himself, they hadn’t been her former haunts for over half a year, now. The thing that had replaced her, that had plucked all trace and memory of her from the world and burrowed into the space she left like a parasitic worm, had never been to this cafe. But she had, and it had met her there, and now he was going to go see it, CC-TV be damned.

It was there waiting for him, sitting at a corner table by the window, pretending rather poorly to be a someone. Its spindly frame was tucked neatly into a wrought iron chair with a brightly patterned fabric cushion and it had its many jointed hands folded primly around an empty coffee cup as it gazed serenely out into the busy street. Its reflection, held in the floor to ceiling window to its left, broke apart in the late afternoon sun and melted into nonsense. Those wild, pale blonde curls seemed to writhe out of its head like a crown of deep sea tube worms.

Jon sat down across from it. He cleared his throat, and a silence stretched between them that seemed to bleed into their bustling surroundings like gore in open water.

Finally, after a few minutes passed at a glacial pace, it spoke, its voice a damp finger on the rim of a cut glass.

THERE IS A TAPE RECORDER IN YOUR POCKET.

“Yes,” said Jon, “I feel safer having them around.”

THAT IS STUPID.

“Yes, well,” Jon huffed, his eyes darting around their table in discomfort, “not any stupider than coming here to find you.

YES, the distortion said thoughtfully. It was very difficult for Jon to rest its eyes on. They seemed to slide off its slender frame and settle elsewhere independently of his intention. He found his gaze resting on its many reflections: in the window, the metal napkin holder between them, even in the polished floor. An inverted Michael even appeared in the concave surface of its tea spoon, resting neatly inside of its empty mug like a stage prop.

“I, uh,” Jon struggled, “I came here t-”

YOUR WILL IS YOU OWN, ARCHIVIST, it interrupted, AND NO CONCERN OF MINE.

“I came here for answers,” he said firmly.

YOU WON’T FIND ANY.

“No?” Jon laughed softly, leaning back in his chair with a weary sigh, “No. But I can ask anyway.”

IT IS YOUR NATURE TO ASK, ARCHIVIST, the distortion reassured, BUT IT IS NOT MINE TO ANSWER. STILL…

Finally, it turned its head, and Jon was met with several rows of teeth stretching into the distance of its smile. Its eyes burned brightly in all the corners of its face.

WE ARE HERE TOGETHER AS WE ARE, AND WE CANNOT GO AGAINST OUR NATURES, AS IT WERE.

It folded its hands primly beneath its chin. They did not fit together properly.

ASK YOUR QUESTIONS, it purred.  
“Jurgen Leitner, he told me about these beings, these gods, that govern things like you. Monsters. He said you were an extension of their influence on us, like a limb reaching into our world,” Jon spoke hurriedly, aware that his window of opportunity was narrow.

AND NOW HE’S DEAD, said Michael coldly.

“Yes,” said Jon, “so he can’t tell me much more.”

YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED…

“Try me.”

I INTEND TO.

“Where,” Jon pressed on, trying to outrun the loop of wire he felt closing around his throat as he spoke, “do I fit into all of this?” He felt tears sting at his eyes and blinked them away forcefully. As he looked at Michael, it seemed to swim into sharper focus through the haze.

YOU ARE THE ARCHIVIST. YOU SERVE BEHOLDING.

“The force behind the Magnus Institute,” said Jon, trying to seem slightly less ignorant.

YES, said Michael, with deeply held disdain, THE EYE WATCHES. IT CATALOGUES. IT KNOWS. It clacked its fingers together as it spoke and they rang out with a throttled chime like rusted blades.

“And you s-”

WHAT YOU SAW, it interrupted testily, WHAT I CAUGHT YOU RUNNING OUT FROM BETWIXT THE JAWS OF, WAS THE NOT THEM. IT IS ITS NATURE TO CONCEAL, TO OBFUSCATE, TO BE UNLIKE THAT WHICH IT IS PERCEIVED TO BE.

“And Jane? Jane Prentiss?”

HER NATURE WAS HERS NO LONGER WHEN YOU MET HER. THE HIVE CONSUMES AND CORRUPTS FECUND FLESH FOR ITS PURPOSE.

“Which is… what? Breeding? Spreading?” Jon guessed.  
DULL, BLIND WRITHING IN THE WARM, WET DARK, said Michael, an irritated rattle weaving through its words.

“So these… things, they --”

YOU HAVE REACHED THE THRESHOLD OF MY PATIENCE, ARCHIVIST, WOULD YOU CARE TO CROSS IT? Michael’s smile grew wider, splitting at the corners.

“You saved my life,” said Jon, deciding to toe it, “You gave me a door. An escape route.”

I THOUGHT I MIGHT WATCH YOU DIE

“You didn’t.”

NO

“So what happens now?”

NOW WE ARE FINISHED HERE, ARCHIVIST

“Maybe you are,” said Jon, setting his mouth into a hard line.

ARE YOU GOING TO DETAIN ME? It laughed, and halos spread over Jon’s vision like the beginnings of an ocular migraine.

“No,” said Jon cautiously, wincing at the well remembered pain in his gut from their last altercation.

THEN TAKE YOUR LEAVE WHILE I OFFER IT…

Jon sat staring at it for a moment longer before standing from the table with a disaffected grumble. He had no parting words for the thing, and didn’t waste his time crafting any. He turned to leave, cursing himself for indulging in what he had known would be a futile excursion. It had been needlessly dangerous and utterly fruitless to come so close to the Institute so soon after he’d fled from it. The fact that it had been there at all had been the kind of coincidence that borders on miraculous. Had it… the thought stopped him in his tracks, halfway to the door, had it been waiting for him?

There was nothing that Jon knew of which tied the distortion to Thyme & Tide Brewery, no more than it was tied to the flower shop across from Sasha’s old apartment or the tunnels under the Institute. How had he known it would be there? He had a list of places he suspected he might find it, but what were the chances it would be seated at the very first one on his list? Had it known that he would go looking for it? Had it planned on him coming? Was this its regular coffee stop on its way to whatever the hell it did with its time?

Jon spun on his heel to face the corner table they had been seated at, his head so abuzz with newly formed questions he thought his eyes might rattle out of their sockets to make room for them. There was a young couple seated there, each sitting behind their laptops with their left hands intertwined on the table between them. One was typing, the other was watching her adoringly, her own coursework ignored.

Jon stared for too long, trying and failing to relax his eyes in a way that might unveil whatever optical illusion was playing out before them. The scene did not change until both young women were staring daggers at the haggard stranger leering at them from across the room. Jon began to stammer through an apology but thought better of it fairly quickly. He turned again and made his way out the door, back into the spring sunshine, back towards the tube, back into his temporary safe house knowing no more than he had when he’d left.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything was going rather well, all things considered. Being a known fugitive in a largely paranormal, extralegal police investigation was going much better than Jon could have hoped when this had all started.

Finding Georgie had been a stroke of incredible luck. Being invited in rather than having his nose broken by an immediately slammed front door was another. Not to imply that they had ended things on bad terms, of course, only that their good terms had been upwards of ten years ago, and were likely to have gone sour.

They very thankfully had not, and Georgie was as kind, witty, caring, and straightforward as she had been when Jon had known her better. He had been living like a paranoid recluse on her couch for some time now, borrowing from her What the Ghost? Merchandise stock for shirts and jumpers and living in an old pair of plaid pajama bottoms. The slacks he had arrived in were laundered and tucked away for his increasingly rare ventures into the outside world.

So, overall things were going fine. The Admiral was sweet and often demanding company. Jon busied himself by keeping the flat tidy and bringing Georgie tea in between recording sessions. The haunted statements kept slipping through the mail slot at odd hours, addressed to him in a thin, slanting hand that looked lifted from a Victorian death certificate. There had been two so far, the second far more affecting than the first.

Jon hadn’t noticed it immediately. Georgie had swept in to let him know she was heading out and they had argued briefly over the merits (or lack thereof) of sheep’s cheese before she left for the night with a final reminder about the food left in the freezer. The comfortable nostalgia of ridiculing the dating profiles of Georgie’s decidedly ineligible singles had helped to obscure the bone-deep exhaustion the latest statement had left him with. As soon as she’d gone Jon had collapsed back onto the couch as if he’d lost a critical support beam. He felt violently hollowed, as if the marrow had been sucked from his bones and replaced with quick dry cement. His eyelids felt like they were being glued shut, another coating of sealant painted over them with each increasingly long blink.

He fought sleep. It was barely past seven. It was too early to go to sleep, and he had wanted to finish the dishes in the sink so as not to fuss around in the morning. He should set about making dinner anyway. Georgie had reminded him more than once about the food in the freezer.

And he didn’t want to sleep.

Rubbing a hand over his face and forcefully shaking his head, Jon reached for the tape recorder on the coffee table. It was on top of the file holding its corresponding statement. This was an older statement with no specified date and no name provided for the statement giver. There were limited notes attached and he debated the usefulness of adding his own. He had no way of doing any follow up. Even if he had access to the Institute’s library it’s not like there were any traceable leads. Still, if he was going to continue… interacting, with these statements, he may as well properly format his notes. Jon pressed the playback button on the handheld recorder and grabbed a pen to transcribe some of his more coherent thoughts.

> 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙶𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚎, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝙳𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎… 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑? 𝙰 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟸?
> 
> 𝙽𝚘, 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎… ‘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕’, 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚜. 𝙰𝚜𝚑𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘. 𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚢. 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐!
> 
> 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜, 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚕𝚜: 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚘𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝙻𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚕? 𝙸𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗.
> 
> 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚒𝚝. “𝙸𝚝”. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎. 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙸’𝚖 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗.
> 
> 𝙾𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗. 𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎… 𝚗𝚘, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚍. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝙻𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊... 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘… 𝙾𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚖’𝚜 𝚁𝚊𝚣𝚘𝚛. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢.
> 
> 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚞𝚝, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎… 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙶𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 -
> 
> Jon shut off the tape, already annoyed at the sound of his own voice. His recording was interrupted by a door opening and Georgie coming in to announce her departure, then an unintentional recording of their exchange. He put his pen down and leaned back against the couch, rubbing his eyes.

“Nothing worth writing down anyway,” he said under his breath, trying to think of something else that could keep him awake.

NOT KEEN ON SLEEPING, ARCHIVIST?

Jon jolted upright at the familiar voice that he had no reason to be hearing. Michael was sat atop the old widescreen CRT in the corner of Georgie’s living room. Its knees were tucked up near its ears and it had its perturbing hands aligned with its feet, perched right at the edge of the screen. It was dark, as Georgie had only left the entry light on, so helpfully the screen that hadn’t been turned on for just shy of seven years was now alight with burning blue static. The distortion, Jon noticed for the first time, was wearing cap toe Balmorals in royal purple velvet.

“I uh… was talking to The Admiral,” Jon managed dumbly.

SHOULD I APOLOGIZE FOR INTRUDING?

“That doesn’t seem like you,” he said.

YES, it replied in a sing song lilt. The inflection of its twisting phrases was always off in a way that felt deeply sinister. No human language fit that awkward, unpredictable cadence.

“One of your colleagues, I imagine,” Jon said, gesturing to the file on the table.

The distortion stayed silent, wavering through the air with a fixed, placid smile.

“How, uhm,” Jon was suddenly struck by the feeling that he was asking a very personal question, “how connected are you to these… things? These others? Are they, uh, are they a part of you? Are you a part of them..?”

Something passed over Michael’s impossible face that Jon thought was a mixture of sadness and irritation poured over features fit for neither. It ignored the question, resting its chin in the palm of its alarmingly large hand, those spindly, arachnid fingers framings its head at impossible angles.

“Not here to talk, then?” Jon offered. It laughed low in its throat and he could swear there was a fond softness in the tooth ache it gave him.

I AM SIMPLY RETURNING A FAVOR THAT WAS PAID TO ME, ARCHIVIST

“So, just visiting, then?”

TAKING INTEREST, it nodded.

“Someone’s, uh, someone’s been sending me statements,” Jon said before he could stop to confront the absurdity of sitting down with the distortion to chat about his day, “I’m not sure who. Or, uh, or what. But I think I’m being led somewhere. Told something I can’t parse…”

Michael flexed its fingers in what could have been resignation. I CANNOT OFFER YOU CLARITY, it said unapologetically.

“No words of encouragement?” Jon sighed.

NO

“How did you know I was here?” Jon leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

YOU ARE NOT VERY GOOD AT HIDING

“So you’re just going to sit there and insult me.”

HOW IS YOUR WOUND HEALING? it asked cheerfully.

“What from where you stabbed me?” Jon seethed, “It’s fine. Thank you so much for your interest.”

Michael’s silhouette bent at an odd angle, its outline betraying its substance. It took an impossibly long step forward to hover close to Jon, the odd halo of haze that surrounded it tugging at the blanket over his lap like a build up of static electricity. It wore half a dozen expressions but committed to none, the plasticity of its features matched only by the insistence of its gaze. The static it had conjured up from nothing cast flickering light over its already uncertain features, illuminating each of them in turn until they seemed to dance in place like the figures on a zoetrope.

“Michael,” Jon swallowed and realized he’d never met its eyes from so close a distance. He thought back to the statement of the unknown figure, calling out to the sinister lack of presence just beyond its entryway and pulling itself out of thin air and into damnation, unable to be anything other than what it wasn’t, “Michael were you ever… human? Do you ever miss it?”

I AM AS I AM, ARCHIVIST, JUST AS YOU ARE AS YOU ARE.

“I think I’m… changing,” said Jon, “but I don’t know into what.”

THEY JOY OF YOUR BECOMING WILL SOON ECLIPSE ITS TERROR.

“I can assume you’re speaking from personal experience.”

Michael tilted its head, its great mass of straw colored curls framing its face like prairie grass swaying over sea cliffs.

ARE YOU FRIGHTENED, ARCHIVIST?

Jon scoffed, “Not really, no. I can’t say it’s comforting but it’s not… acute terror. Not anymore. It’s just… abysmal.”

IT TAKES TIME... the distortion said and then, with tenderness and grace, it reached towards the Archivist and took his hand with its gnarled, branching fingers, balancing its thumb and middle finger against either side of Jon’s hand delicately enough not to slice it in half. It turned his wrist thoughtfully until his palm faced downwards, draping over Michael’s index finger. Jon was somewhat shocked he let it.

The distortion bent its head low and brushed its lips over Jon’s knuckles. It had the same all over burning bite as brushing softly over a stinging nettle. Jon focused on keeping his hand inordinately still so as to avoid losing all his fingers in one fell swoop. Michael raised its head only slightly and looked up at Jon through its spidery lashes.

BE CAREFUL, ARCHIVIST, THE NEXT TIME I HAVE YOU IN MY HALLS, I DON'T THINK I'LL LET YOU GO.

“Is that a threat?” Jon said through clenched teeth.

I HAVE NO USE FOR THREAT, I'M AFRAID. IF I WANTED TO HURT YOU I WOULD. I SEE NO NEED TO WARN YOU BEFORE DOING SO.

“So you… don’t want to hurt me?”

I... the distortion paused with some uncertainty, NO, I DO NOT THINK I DO. I SURPRISE... EVEN MYSELF... AND I AM NOT USED TO HAVING A SELF TO SURPRISE.

It laughed, and Jon felt his head grow heavy and his vision grow dim. He had more questions for it. He wanted to get his hand back. But it was impossible to keep his eyes open. He felt himself falling backwards but he didn’t feel the back of the couch catch him, only its support when he woke up. It was early morning, he must have slept through the night sitting up… as he moved he felt his blanket fall from his shoulders. That’ll mean Georgie got home, he thought. How had he fallen asleep? Had… Michael done that? Jon shook his head as if trying to free himself from a bad dream. He couldn’t… remember what he’d been dreaming about, but there was a general feeling of unease crawling its way through his chest. With a great deal of apprehension, he drew his hand up from under his blanket and was shocked to find it wholly unchanged.

He opened and closed his fist a few times, running a mental inventory of how many bones and tendons he could feel working beneath his skin. He waggled his fingers, expecting to see phantoms chasing them through the air, but found none.

Jon heaved a sigh, tilting his head back against the couch and feeling the muscles in his neck protest. It was almost more disturbing that he couldn’t find any evidence of Michael’s evening visit. That gave him less certainty about whether or not he had imagined it. Right. Morning. Coffee. Slowly, with a fair amount of uncertainty behind every movement, Jon got up and went into the kitchen to put a kettle on.


	3. Chapter 3

Georgie Barker and Melanie King met up at a pub. This was a common enough occurrence between close enough friends made noteworthy by the sudden peril they suspected a mutual acquaintance to be in.

Jonathan Sims wasn’t doing well.

“I don’t know,” said Melanie, staring down into her drink, “he was just odd.”

“Odd how?” Georgie pressed for a second time, “Because, he’s usually sort of --”

“Well this time he was _un_ usually sort of,” Melanie punctuated her thought with the same waggly hand gesture Georgie had used to finish hers, “Come on, you’ve known him longer than I have, you must notice something’s off.”

“I dunno,” Georgie shifted her weight uncomfortably, “he just lost his job, I’m sure lots of things are off. I’m… still trying to give him space. Time to adjust, you know?”

“Yeah, well, you’ve already given him your space, you can’t just sit back and wait for him to find more hoping he’ll just unfold into his old self again,” Melanie furrowed her brows, her syllables coming short and rapid from between her tightly held lips like she was lecturing a tardy key grip.

Georgie tapped her fingers up and down the damp sides of her glass, her eyes fixed on the table between them, “Tell you the truth, Mel, I don’t know if him going back to his old self would be an improvement.”

“Heh, yeah, god, I can only imagine-- hey!” Melanie leaned over towards her, bringing her elbows in towards her chest like they were sharing a secret, “what was that like, huh? Dating Jon?”

“Let’s not,” said Georgie, not unkindly, “it just feels like gossip.”

“I come back from my near death experience in the wilds of a foreign continent and you won’t even give me ten year old gossip,” Melanie whined.

“Tell me what happened to your leg,” said Georgie, coldly.

“That’s different,” Melanie snapped back, slumping immediately back against her side of their booth.

“Private, yeah?”

“Painful,” she seethed.

“Personal,” Georgie confirmed, “So’s this. Anyway, it was before either of us had come out, so --”

“Wait, sorry,” Melanie interrupted, eyes bright and past wrongs forgotten, “either of you?”

“Mel, this is why I didn’t want to do this.”

“Right, no, sorry. Yeah, I’m -- ” Melanie shrank quickly, “Oh I feel like a dick Georgie, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, let’s just… let’s just drop it.”

They sat holding a tense silence between themselves, each waiting for the other to give enough slack to overcome it. They started and stopped a few sentences in turn before Georgie took the wheel.

“Look, I’m not asking you for details because I don’t believe you,” she said softly, “And I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I just --”

“No, listen, Georgie,” Melanie rushed, “I was being a dick, I --”

“I care about him, okay?”

Melanie starred for a moment as she dry swallowed the rest of her sentence.

“And I don’t think you would’ve brought this up to me if you didn’t as well.”

“Right…” she conceded sheepishly. Another silence stretched between them, now of a friendlier sort.

“When I met up with him,” Melanie began, “I told you, yeah? After he texted me?”

“Yeah,” said Georgie, “you sent the screenshot.”

“Right… he texts like my dad.”

“God he always has, too.”

“It’s ridiculous! I’m shocked he doesn’t have a flip phone!! You know I swear to you I saw him typing with his index finger? Like some sort of wild animal reintroducing itself into civilization…”

“Sounds about right,” said Georgie fondly.

“But, anyway, I was… glad he reached out,” Melanie admitted, “Honestly even if…”  
“Even if what?”

“Just that we hadn’t parted on the best of terms, and I’d been sort of… I dunno, bit of a dick I guess.”

“Yeah that also sounds about right,” said Georgie, very fondly.

“So… I dunno. I can’t say I was thrilled to see him but I guess I was glad he wasn’t dead. Things have felt weird since I got back, and the new job’s been a rough start so, I guess it was nice that he reached out. It wasn’t exactly like meeting a friend but it was meeting someone… familiar. Someone I knew what to expect from, y’know? Except…” Melanie paused to take a determined swig of her beer, then, as she was halfway through setting her glass back on the table, she changed her mind to take another.

“Except he wasn’t familiar. He just didn’t seem like he was… all the way there. I remember feeling sort of pissed off about it. Like, he was the one who invited me to come see him and he was just sort of… listless? Disengaged? He sort of explained some things but his voice sounded hollow, like when you can hear the ocean in a seashell. It sounds so real, especially as a kid, but you know it’s n--”

“Sorry,” Georgie interrupted, with panic in her eyes, “say that again?”

“Well just that it felt like his head was elsewhere, you know. Like his attention wasn --”

“No, no I know what you mean I just… the way you said it,” Georgie’s voice faded and she withdrew from the table, wrapping her arms around herself as if she was suddenly cold.

“Georgie,” said Melanie cautiously, “ are you okay?”

“Look, Jon’s been living on my couch, right? Which is fine, don’t get me wrong. I told him so. He’s welcome here for as long as he needs,” Georgie paused to pick nervously at her cuticles. There was a deep worry etched into her face that clearly stemmed from something other than being thought of as an ungracious hostess. Melanie sat with her hands around her perspiring glass.

“He’s still been working,” Georgie continued, “Recording statements and what not. I can’t say I understand what kind of job leaves you homeless and still expects you to continue in your duties but, whatever. Like I said, I didn’t want to press him on it. The situation seemed dire enough, I didn’t want to add to it and make him think of any clever excuses. He says he’s been doing his own personal research, whatever that’s supposed to mean. My coffee table’s covered in papers… 

It’s cute, actually, The Admiral’s started batting his crumpled notes around like he used to do with my script pages as a kitten. They like each other. The Admiral liked him immediately and I know Jon appreciates the company. It’s nice. I mean, I know Jon well. Really well. But not recently. It’s been years. I guess it’s nice to know that he leaves such a good impression on someone I trust, you know?”

Melanie’s eyes softened as she nodded.

“Anyway, Jon’s always been sort of a workaholic --”

“Oh yeah? That’s what you call the ten foot stick up his arse?”

“Oh that’s rich coming from you, Mel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have stories from ADs and gaffers that could probably put you in prison.”

“Shove off, I’m efficient.”

“You’re a dictator.”

“Oh, this isn’t about me!” Melanie protested.

Georgie’s face fell suddenly, “No,” she said gently, “no you’re right, sorry.”

“It’s just that I walked in on Jon the other night -- don’t make that face you know that’s not where this is going. He was writing. But it seemed… frantic somehow. Not just like he had a good idea he was excited to work through, it was sort of like, manic? This rabid, focused intensity. Normally, when he’s researching, The Admiral is in his lap or batting at his pen but this time I didn’t see him anywhere. After I looked around for a bit I finally saw him puffed up on the top tier of his cat tree, as far away from Jon as he could possibly get.

I walked up to him, and when he didn’t react I got worried so I reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Gently, you know. I didn’t want to startle him, just to check in. But he jerked so violently, you’d have thought I’d run up and shaken him. I started apologizing, saying I just wanted to know if he wanted tea, because I was headed to make some, but when I glanced down at his notes…

He hadn’t been writing. I expected to see notes but in front of him there were just… pages and pages of the same tightly spaced pattern, drawn hundreds and hundreds of times over. It was miles of the same wavering line, dancing across the pages into these nauseating swirls. There were thousands of lines, all so close together they were almost touching, but never intersecting. And somehow, I knew that they were all drawn in one stroke, the pen never leaving the page.

When I met his eyes his pupils were blown so wide his whole iris seemed black, and the bags under his eyes looked like bruises.

I think he could tell how freaked out I was because he looked down and seemed sort of taken aback by what was in front of him. And he…” Georgie paused for the first time in a while, biting at her top lip hesitantly, pulling it down with her bottom teeth like a child, “he told me, in this quiet voice I’d never heard him use before, like he was impossibly far away -- he told me he was drawing the sea.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jonathan Sims was having what could charitably be called a rough day, having been equal parts insulted, condescended, and immolated by an undead hell cult priestess. He clumsily unlocked the door to Georgie’s flat with his left hand and struggled similarly with locking it. He was tired. He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been tired. The constant emotional background noise of inescapable terror and insurmountable dread had bored into every fiber of his being and formed a hollow that sleep could not fill. He dropped his bag on a kitchen chair and called out for Georgie, who wasn’t home.

STICKING YOUR FINGERS WHERE THEY AREN’T WANTED, ARCHIVIST?

Jon spun around to find Michael perched casually on a window sill, its uncorporeal form clipping effortlessly through the slatted blinds and double paned glass.

“I, uh, I met Jude Perry today,” he said, bringing his badly burnt right hand close to his chest. This was a strange new normal, chatting to a walking, talking divorce from reality about his day. But it wasn’t like he had any coworkers at the moment. And he couldn’t tell Georgie anything about what he was doing without getting sectioned. Although… talking to Michael might well have been a faster way of getting sectioned. But despite the undeniable oddities of the arrangement, Jon was beginning to think of the distortion as a friend. Maybe that underscored just how sorely lacking he was in human acquaintances, but considering how even The Admiral made himself scarce when it was around, he didn’t feel like he had much of a choice.

AND YOU LET HER TAKE YOUR HAND? Michael said somewhat incredulously. It had a sincerely disappointed look crosshatched over its features.

“Well, ‘let’ is generous,” Jon flexed his injured fingers. The skin was still charred but the muscle tissue had already stopped showing through. God, it hurt.

“I’m honestly surprised I got it back,” he said, watching the distortion flicker, “and she, uh… she said something.”

YOU WERE ASKING YOUR QUESTIONS, ARCHIVIST, I’M SURE SHE SAID A GREAT MANY THINGS

“She did. I uh, I sort of think I took her statement,” Jon furrowed his brows and thought again about how natural it had felt. He hadn’t meant to pull the words from her but they had spilled all the same.

“I’ve never done that before,” he said, “not outside of work, I…”

YOU ARE THE ARCHIVIST, Michael interrupted, as if it should be obvious.

“She said that too.”  
Jon watched the distortion place its chin in its hand as it often did when they spoke. It had a look on its face that seemed to suggest all his fumbling in the dark and chasing dead ends was quite twee.

“But then she… she leaned over with her elbows on our table and she brought her face so close to mine I could smell burning hair and melting tallow.” Jon looked up and met the distortion’s swirling eyes, watching them melt over the uncertain planes of its face, “and she said ‘Now what does Elias think about _that_?’”

Michael’s face poorly feigned ignorance.

“She said I’d been marked,” Jon continued, “but she wouldn’t say by what. It seemed to _amuse_ her.”

Michael’s spine began to crawl over the window frame like a giant millipede, its head twisting far from its limbs, its unruly blonde curls hanging down onto the carpet like a willow over still water.

IT IS NOT MY BUSINESS TO JUSTIFY THE RAVINGS OF EVERY MADWOMAN THAT CROSSES YOUR PATH, it said as its neck continued to corkscrew through the air. It stopped just short of Jon’s face, so close he felt the need to hold his breath.

FEEL BETTER, ARCHIVIST, Michael said, its last syllable dissipating into a sidewinder rattle.

“Thank you,” Jon said flatly into the now empty air.


	5. Chapter 5

“Now that’s taken care of, if you’ll all give me and Jon a moment alone. I’m sure we have some things to discuss.”

Elias’ tone was as dry and measured as it would have been had he briefed the team on quarterly payroll updates. The cold and helpless rage that filled the air in his meticulously organized office rose off the gathered Archival staff like waves of summer heat off a tarmac. Slowly, in what felt like resolute defeat, they filed out the door, Martin closing it gently behind them. A short silence followed.

“So,” said Jon icely.

“Come on, Jon, there’s really no need for that scowl,” Elias sounded amiable. Jolly, almost, like he normally did after updating a particularly involved series of spreadsheets.

“What do you want?” Jon snapped.

“Honestly? To offer some congratulations. You’re doing a lot better than I could have expected.”

“Feels like all I’ve managed to do is… not die.”

“And believe me that is a remarkably rare skill,” said Elias with a paternal air of pride, “but one you’re still in the nascent stages of acquiring.” He glanced at Jon’s mangled right hand, still raw and painful, the quickly forming scar tissue shining brightly from his fingertips past his wrist.

“Have you seen a doctor about that?” he asked, very well knowing the answer.

“No,” said Jon flatly.

“I thought as much,” Elias said, reaching into a drawer to his left.

“You knew as much.”

“I’m flattered by your assumptions of my omniscience, Jon, but some things really aren’t that difficult to figure out, with or without my abilities,” Elias had stood from behind his desk and crossed in front of it with a small latched box in hand. He set it down and opened it in a fluid, practiced motion, and Jon could see it was a tin first aid kit, the kind he had only seen in classroom screened documentaries and BBC specials. It was well stocked with bandages, gauze, plasters, and iodine, and even a set of steel forceps. Elias perched on the edge of his desk and beckoned Jon closer with a slight inclination of his head.

“What are you going to do?” he said cautiously.

“Alright, you’ve caught me” Elias said coldly, “I’m going to deglove your right hand with these forceps and cuticle scissors before amputating it at the wrist and rewrapping the skin over the mince meat like five stuffed Turkish figs.”

A short silence followed.

“I am obviously joking.”

“Is it obvious?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jon, come here.” 

Against whatever remained of his better judgement, Jon did, closing the distance between them in one careful stride. Elias took the lid off an unmarked jar of salve and dipped the first two fingers of his right hand into it, holding his left out towards Jon expectantly. With the trepidation of a lamb led to its slaughter, Jon placed his injured hand in Elias’ waiting one, their palms meeting, his fingers draping over the other man’s wrist. He could feel his pulse beneath the frayed, reforming nerve endings at his fingertips, beating with war drum steadiness. Gently, Elias smoothed the salve over Jon’s injury, rubbing the pads of his fingers in swirls across his palm and over the back of his hand, pulling gently along the length of his fingers before moving to twist his hand around his thumb. There was a sort of hypnotic rhythm to his movements that paired well with the predatory focus in his eyes.

“Uh… thank you,” Jon said softly. Elias ignored him.

“What did that mad dog do to your neck?” he asked instead, not lifting his eyes from the scar tissue he tended to.

“Oh, er, Daisy? She, uh, we were at Michael, eh, Mike Crew’s apartment --”

“Did she hurt you?” The question was at once absurd and deadly serious. That she had hurt him was plainly evident. Jon was being asked what should be done about it.

“No,” he said resolutely, “no, it’s fine.”

Elias tutted, leaning back from his perch on the desk to inspect his work, turning Jon’s injured hand this way and that.

“Well it will have to do for now,” he said, “you’re already well past blisters, but this should help your pain some.”

It had, tremendously, but Jon had already thanked him and didn’t feel like stooping to do so again. He withdrew his hand and held it close to his chest, casting his eyes to the floor.  
“Who did that to you?”

“Oh like you don’t already know.”

“I am yet again flattered by your assumptions, Jon, but I have neither the time nor the energy to watch every second of your day. I doubt that would serve either of us,” said Elias, carefully replacing the burn salve and closing the latch of his tool box, “unless you’d like me to?”

Jon felt his throat close. Elias glanced up at him from beneath his lashes.

“Jude Perry,” he said finally.

“Hm,” Elias sounded content at that.

“Do I get to ask my own questions?”

“Always,” he said, spreading his arms in a conciliatory gesture, his palms raised to the ceiling, “in fact I count on you to do so.”

“But I’m not getting any answers out of you, am I?”

“The easily digestible sort that wipe away any doubt and fear and neatly organize your new world into happy little columns? No. Not from me. These are things you must discover on your own.”

“Why?” Jon growled.

“Because you are the Archivist. It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others. To simply be told, well…” Elias finished his thought with a look of clear and deeply held disdain.

“Because that doesn’t please your master.”

“Our master, Jon. You would do well to remember that.”

“No,” said Jon forcefully, “no, I never chose this.”

“You never wanted this, no,” Elias spoke calmly, with his eyes softened and his brows gently raised in a way that gave some credence and some semblance of normality to the horrifying perspective he laid bare, “But I’m afraid you absolutely did choose it. In a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds, you pressed on. You sought knowledge relentlessly, and you always chose to see. Our world is made of choices, Jon, and very rarely do we truly know what any of them mean, but we make them nonetheless.”  
“So… what now?”

“You were doing fine before you forced this little scene, I suggest you continue.”

“So it was you,” Jon gawked, struck by how much the realization shocked him, “sending me those statements.”

“A little direction never hurt anybody,” Elias glanced at Jon’s hand and neck, “so to speak.”

Jon gave a hollow, defeated laugh, “Directed towards what?”

“The Unknowing. I need you to stop it.”

“Again with -,” Jon breathed in, attempting to control his exasperation, “What is the Unknowing? Exactly?”

“A ritual. The Stranger and its kin attempting to gather power enough to bring it closer.”

“They’re trying to… what? Summon it?”

“Not exactly,” Elias grimaced, as if it pained him to break these things down to such crude and rudimentary terms. But Jon would demand no less of him. “These things that touch us, they… don’t have a form of the sort that could exist in physical reality. So the Stranger wishes to remake that physical reality into something closer to itself. It wants to make this world its own.”

“And how do I stop it?” 

“That is what you need to find out.”

“No,” Jon took a step forward, gesticulating in anger, “No, you are not doing that.” He pressed his weight into each word, feeling the rage swell in his chest and burn at the back of his throat like a tide of black bile. “I know you have Gertrude’s notes, her files. She was working on a way to stop this. That’s not even taking into account your… abilities. Omniscient or not,” he added quickly, as Elias rolled his eyes in irritation, “you obviously know how to stop it. You could just tell me!”

“I could,” said Elias, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and look thoughtfully off to his right to ape consideration, “But I believe that if I did so, you would fail.”

Jon sighed angrily, but Elias was undeterred. “The Stranger is antithetical to us,” he looked back at Jon when he said it, emphasizing the camaraderie he yoked them both into, “We thrive on ceaseless watching, on knowing too much. What we face is the hidden, the uncanny, and the unknown. If you are to stop them, you need to get better at seeing. And my explaining things is simply not enough.”

“You can’t at least give me all of the statements?”

“Jon, even when you had them all at your disposal, you barely got through one statement a week. Why do you think that is? It takes its toll on you. And I know you’ve had problems with moderation…” the last phrase seemed to catch on his teeth in a way that made his lip curl. Jon ignored it.

“So it’s back to breadcrumbs… statements, and... and risking my life talking to things that barely remember how to be human anymore…”

“For now, and I’ll offer you a word of warning.”

“Ah, yes, well, thank you for your concern,” Jon hissed.

“You’re very welcome, Jon. You’ll find it increasingly hard to come by as you press onward. I know,” Elias put a hand out to silence Jon’s emerging protest, “I know you won’t believe me when I say so, but I am truly acting in your best interest. This is the path you’ve chosen for yourself, and I am doing my utmost to guide you forward in a way that will serve you.”

“Serve Beholding, you mean.”

“The path we walk is one of servitude, yes, Jon, but we walk it,” said Elias coolly, “we do not stumble blindly through the dark. We do not trap ourselves like rats in a maze.” Elias’ tone had dipped from clerical instruction to unmistakable reproach, “We do not let ourselves be led astray by nonsense and foolhardiness, left to grope at branching pathways with fleece over our eyes.”

“Michael…”

“You would do well to stay away from it,” said Elias through his teeth, “it is a needless distraction, and it has no business in our affairs.”

“I think… I think he wants to help, actually.”

“It,” Elias raged, “does not want anything. It is a broken fragment of a pointless thing. It is not what it is, and it does not concern us.”

“It certainly seems to concern itself with us.”

“Then the onus falls entirely on you to cut short its meddling,” Elias’ face had darkened, the coquettish glint of victory having wholly disappeared from his dark eyes, “do not feed it, Jon. It will come back like a mange ridden animal.”

“Now,” the immediate shift back to the airy tones of his usual hands off management style was disorienting, “anything else?”

“Am I…” Jon hesitated for a moment, squeezing the fingers of his injured hand together as he forced his way through his sentence, “Elias, am I still human?”

“Oh, Jon,” Elias reached forward and clasped his hands over Jon’s in a gesture of mock sincerity, “what does human even mean? I mean, really? You can still bleed, you can still die. Your will is still your own, mostly. That’s more than can be said for a lot of the ‘real’ humans out there.”

“You’re worried about ending up like that thing, lurking in the dirt under the streets of Alexandria?” he ran his thumb to and fro over Jon’s knuckles and gave his hands a gentle squeeze in a pointed gesture of saccharin insincerity, “Don’t be. Just do what you need to, and you’ll be fine. Understood?”

“I suppose so,” Jon lied.

“Good,” Elias nodded, releasing his hands and stepping back behind his desk, replacing his first aid kit and retrieving a leather bound notebook from the same drawer, “Now, I have work to be getting on with. I’ll send you a Return to Work form, but don’t worry about the doctor’s note.”

He looked up from uncapping his fountain pen as if surprised to see that Jon was still standing there. “If there’s nothing else?”

“Uh, right,” Jon said awkwardly, and took his leave.


	6. Chapter 6

The weather over London was miserable. A persistent, misting rain that settled over the city like a wet, dreary totality to moor the world in doldrums.

The Archivist was miserable. He had spent his afternoon traveling from Barnet back to Central London and arrived back at Georgie’s flat drenched to the skin.

It was still Georgie’s flat. Not theirs, and certainly not his. It was still a temporary arrangement and it still felt, with every second it progressed, like an imposition. Less and less the needling inconvenient kind implied by an overstayed welcome, more and more the mortally perilous kind implied by dragging your oldest friend into a conspiracy you yourself have failed to make heads or tails of.

Sarah Baldwin had been a dead end. He should have known. He should have recognized the name and paid better attention. For all the information that wormed its way into the sutures of his skull, none of it brought him any closer to untangling the mystery that threatened to swallow him whole alongside everything he loved.

Jon was tired. He couldn’t remember a time in recent memory that he hadn’t been tired. It seemed to be a permanent and immutable state of being. To free himself from it would require sleep, something he got precious little of these days. Something he worked diligently to avoid.

His dreams were troublesome. Twisting, barely decipherable things that led him down beneath the earth and brought him to stand before a furnace. They sat him in front of a computer that bit cruelly at his fingertips, baiting him to bite back. He stood an arm’s length away from a daffodil yellow door whose black knob radiated heat as he hovered his hand over it. Mesh waste paper baskets held burning books. Shadowy strangers offered cigarettes. A wasp’s nest grew in a locked and beckoning attic. Something wasn’t there and didn’t haunt a stairwell. A man was never married. A priest could no longer speak the name of God. A human tooth floated to the surface of a coffee cup. The Archivist’s dreams were crawling and many legged, and they chased him anywhere he stood, biting at his ankles.

He did his best. Standing in front of a slowly filling coffee pot, swaying gently as his eyes glazed over, sinking his teeth into the hollows of his cheeks and biting at the dry skin on his lips. Desperate to hover just above the pain threshold of what his conscious mind would be forced to register. He held onto wakefulness by the skin of his teeth and the tips of his fingers, hopelessly trying to prolong his stay in the world of the living. He had no way of knowing where his dreams would take him and no desire to find out. He wanted peace. He wanted quiet. He peeled his jacket off and draped it gingerly over the back of a kitchen chair. Rainwater dripped onto the floor. He thought about doing something about it. He called out for Georgie, who wasn’t home.

Georgie wasn’t around much these days. Or else it was a matter of Jon not being around much, or only at the times that Georgie wasn’t. Jon kept odd hours. He left the flat early and came back late. He came back rarely. He was always chasing leads and following up on half finished research, or else rotating through twenty four hour cafes trying to keep from resting his head.

The coffee pot was full. It was Wednesday. He’d just gotten back from Barnet. The journey home had been long and wet. Was there sugar left? Had he checked already? Who was to say. Certainly not Jon.

Was that the Admiral? He’d seen a movement, somewhere off in the periphery, in that space that existed only in the corners of your vision and never where your eyes were pointed. Was it the Admiral? Jon tutted gently, the tip of his tongue pressing off from the roof of his mouth in a series of nonsense soft consonants. He rubbed his eyes.

Had the Admiral always moved… like that? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Was it the lighting? Coffee. He was making coffee. The coffee maker had already beeped. He had found the sugar. He’d just had it in his hand, where had he set it down? It wasn’t on the counter. Stop, calm down, retrace your steps. You reached into the cupboard, and then -- oh, there. Yes. To your left. Jon didn’t normally take any sugar in his coffee. He drank it black. But he’d needed so much of it lately that the taste had started to annoy him. Georgie only had cheap store brand coffee grounds. He would’ve preferred to grind whole beans but he never had enough time to go buy some. He thought of getting Georgie a bag of Sumatra coffee beans to show her what good coffee actually tasted like. But then, she didn’t have a grinder. You can’t grind coffee beans beforehand it compromises the --- They had had this fight before. Not really a fight. Not even a disagreement. Just a gentle sort of ribbing that became an inside joke that wove its way through all their interactions. When he’d first stopped by they’d laughed about it for the first time in ten years. Jon and his snobby coffee. But you really can’t put sugar in good coffee. It ruins the coffee. Cream and sugar are fine if you’re trying to cover up the taste of bad coffee but good coffee should be enjoyed -- What was that?

“Admiral?” Jon called out. There was a ceramic sugar bowl in his left hand and no cat in the kitchen. The coffee in his mug was cold. How long had… No. That was the coffee he had made this morning. He hadn’t finished it. There was new coffee. In the coffee pot. Jon dumped the old coffee into the sink and refilled his mug without bothering to rinse it. He drank it standing. It was burnt and bitter. He’d forgotten to add sugar.

His clothes were still wet. He was cold. He peeled off his slacks and his socks and hung them over the back of the kitchen chair where he’d hung his jacket. He finished his coffee standing in the middle of the kitchen barefoot and bare legged. It was burnt and bitter but it was hot, and the warmth sat in his chest and his belly. He set the empty mug down on the counter. He peeled off his shirt and hung it over the back of the kitchen chair where he’d hung his slacks and his socks. He was still cold. He made his way to the couch. His blanket was folded there where he’d left it but The Admiral wasn’t on it. Normally he would’ve been. He was sweet that way. When Jon or Georgie weren’t home he preferred to sleep on their blankets. When they were he would sit in his cat tree. Jon still hadn’t seen him, which was odd. He wasn’t a shy cat.  
He picked up the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, hugging it close to his chest and tight around his legs before sitting down. It cocooned him easily. He’d lost weight. He’d been losing weight.

The coffee table was covered in papers. His papers. Hand written notes and photo copies. A map or two. A mess. Somewhere in the clutter was a paper boarding pass. It would have been easier to download the app but he hadn’t wanted to. Always a bit of a technophobe. It felt so deeply strange to call that aversion a fear. Who had thought of that word? What had they known of fear?

Jon was tired. He couldn’t think of a time in recent memory he hadn’t been tired. It seemed to have become a permanent and immutable state of being. He would have to sleep at some point. But not now. Later, but not now. He avoided sleep with great diligence. He was getting good at it. It chased him, halfway out of biological necessity and halfway out of malice. His dreams were strange. His mind went to dark places and it brought strange things back with it. Was that the Admiral? Moving like a cluster of spiders in the corner of his vision? He turned his head and there was nothing there. Jon made a few soft kissing sounds towards various corners of the flat, not yet ready to resort to _pss pss psst_ but getting close to it. He was so tired. His eyelids were so heavy. But he had promises to keep, and miles to go ‘fore he could sleep. He knew he shouldn’t lean back on the couch. He knew he should try to stand. Find a change of clothes. Pour himself another cup of coffee. Go for another walk in the rain. Dig his nails into his palms. Harder. Harder or it won’t work. Harder or it’ll catch up to you. 

Harder.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon awoke in a cold sweat, unsure when he’d fallen asleep, unsure how long he’d been out for, and momentarily unsure where he was. He took brief and disoriented stock of his surroundings. Couch. Blanket. Georgie’s flat. Under a blanket on the couch in Georgie’s flat. It was dark. All the lights were off. He’d gone to sleep with them on. Or, the last thing he remembered was the lights being on. Georgie must have come home. She must have turned the lights off. His throat was dry. His eyes burned. Where was the Admiral?

The door to Georgie’s room was closed. What time was it? He lifted his arm and squinted at his wristwatch in the dark. Helpfully, the hands were fluorescent. In the United States in the early twenties, women in factories that produced glow-in-the-dark wrist watches contracted radium poisoning from being told to lick their radium coated brushes in order to achieve a finer tip as they painted the watch faces. Now, watch faces were painted with nonradioactive photoluminescent materials. It was ten minutes to three. He’d slept for nearly twelve hours. He couldn’t remember his dreams. There was a weight on his chest. He blinked, trying to refocus his eyes in the dark, and gropped around the coffee table in search of his glasses. He couldn’t remember taking them off. Jon placed them clumsily back onto his face, poking himself twice in his left eye. 

Folded into a nonsense tangle of elbows and knees was the Distortion, perched in the center of his chest like Fuseli’s Nightmare. Jon couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised.

QUITE THE HEAVY SLEEPER, AREN’T WE, ARCHIVIST?

Jon watched its teeth wiggle like the keys of a self playing piano.

“I uh, haven’t been, no. Not lately,” he said, appalled at the taste in his mouth as he spoke, “Not uhm, ever, really.”

JUST CATCHING UP ON OUR BEAUTY REST?

“Every bit of it would help, at this point,” Jon sighed, running a hand over his face, “were you waiting up for me?”

Michael tilted its head thoughtfully but stayed silent.

“Have you seen the Admiral?” Jon asked blearily, “I, uh, I think I was having a dream about you.”

YES, ARCHIVIST, I WAS THERE…

“You’ve been here a lot,” said Jon flatly.

WE’VE BEEN TOGETHER

Jon paused to consider its use of the verb.

“You know I think I’m starting to like your company,” he said. The Distortion flickered, its face rearranging somewhere beneath its surface.

“I met Sarah Baldwin,” Jon said, to fill the silence.

AND HOW DID YOU FIND HER?

“Full of sawdust and devoid of answers. Oh, unless you mean-- uh, Dai-- Detective Toner, she came with me. She, uh, brought a gun, which was…” Jon shook his head, “She mentioned you. Sarah. Or whatever was… wearing her.”

Michael’s hair swayed in a phantom breeze like a cluster of cattails.

“I asked her about the Angler Fish, the thing that took her. And all the others. She told me it didn’t have a name, not a real one anyway. She said I should know all about that, that I should be used to it by now and if I wasn’t then things were going to get a lot more painful.”

Michael blinked slowly, its face slightly out of sync with itself, and walked its fingers up the sides of its head to twist into a canopy above it. Its smile felt warm, like radiation poisoning.

“You know Elias mentioned you too? He warned me. It’s like,” Jon laughed; it was a short and hollow sound, “it’s like people can’t stop warning me about you.”

YOU AREN’T SUDDENLY GOING TO START LISTENING TO THEM… ?

“No,” Jon laughed again, this time with an edge of joy in it, “no that doesn’t sound like me.”

SELF PRESERVATION ISN’T IN YOUR NATURE, Michael nodded.

“I don’t think it ever has been, not even before… all of this.”

THERE IS NO ‘BEFORE’ THIS

“No I don’t suppose there is,” said Jon quietly, looking off to his right.

“You know I think I might want to kiss you,” he blurted out suddenly, as if all the screwing of his courage to the sticking place had caused some sort of pressure build up that propelled the words forward. The Distortion laughed, and Jon felt his teeth rattle up from their roots.

IT WOULD HURT

“What, you?” Jon scoffed.

….NO, said Michael, with unrestrained delight.

“Then I don’t see why you’d care,” said Jon, feeling suddenly defensive as the color rose in his cheeks.

OH? WHY WOULDN’T I?

“You haven’t exactly been coy about hurting me,” Jon seethed, putting a hand on his stomach where his stab wound had begun to turn into a scar, “I can’t imagine you starting now. Not if there’s -- what was it that you called watching me get run down like an animal in the Institute tunnels? _Sport_? Not as long as you get something you want?”

ARE YOU TRYING TO THINK LIKE ME, ARCHIVIST? YOU AREN’T VERY GOOD AT IT…

“D…” Jon blinked through his surprise, watching multidimensional swirls wind their way through the Distortion’s eyes, “Sorry, do you… do you not want it?” 

IS THAT WHAT I SAID?

“So you… what, you do care?” Jon offered gingerly.

MMM MMMMMM, Michael chimed, its tongue flicking over its bottom lip like the peal of rusted church bells.

“Well… why? Why would you care about anything that happens to me?”

I AM INVESTED IN WHAT GOES ON... BOTH WITH YOU AND IN THIS PLACE, EVEN AS A NEUTRAL PARTY AMID THE FESTIVITIES, Michael waved its hand dismissively, leaving a trail of halfway developed outlines in the air, like damaged film negatives.

“Then,” Jon set his very dry mouth into a hard line, “would you?”

WOULD I ...? it teased.

“Like to?” Jon swallowed, “kiss me?”

HMM… Michael looked pensive, its shifting features pooling in opposing corners of its face, I... THINK I WOULD, it finally said, with an air of incredulity.

“Well don’t -“ said Jon hurriedly, “I mean don’t feel like you have to, it isn’t like- You know, I just thought bec- “

SHUT UP, ARCHIVIST

“Yes alright,” he stammered.

Michael swam forward, bringing its parody of a face to Jon’s. It morphed as it drew nearer, occupying more and less of Jon’s vision than it ought to have, coming at him from all sides. He felt like the field of his vision had changed sharply to that of a prey animal.

Their lips met, and Jon could feel his peeling violently away from his face like the rind off a surrealist orange. His teeth, which he’d felt rattle in the grooves of his jaw, burst like Christmas crackers, their shards peppering the tender insides of his mouth.

Jon raised his arms to put his hands in Michael’s hair, its straw colored curls twisting between his fingers like razor wire. He felt lost, and Michael’s nth dimensional teeth sinking through the soft tissue of his mouth were an anchor, or else a grounding wire. Jon didn’t notice when he closed his eyes, but he saw impossible colors dancing beneath their lids like sparks from a chemical fire.

Michael pulled away once it had kissed The Archivist moonstruck and insane, and Jon leaned forward trying to stay with it. Michael laughed again, but there was no cruelty in it. Instead, it sounded charmed.

NOT YET, ARCHIVIST. I’M AFRAID I’LL KILL YOU.

“W- won’t you?” said Jon, breathlessly.

MMMMMMM, YES, ONE DAY. BUT NOT TODAY. NOT SOON. I DON’T THINK I’VE FINISHED WITH YOU YET.

“I’m still not sure what it is you’ve started,” Jon sank back to rest his weight against the arm of the sofa. The Distortion crawled up to settle its elbows on his chest, where Jon could feel it humming like a hornet’s nest.

I DO NOT DEAL IN SURETY, ARCHIVIST

“Or in certainty,” Jon ran his hands over his face and tried to look at Michael without thinking too much about the ridiculous double chin it gave him to point his head in that direction, “Everyone, all of you… Jude Perry, Mike Crew, Elias, Sarah Baldwin, you all call me The Archivist. Like I’m one of you.”

“You all seem to _know_ it,” Jon continued quickly, racing against the pointedly judgemental disbelief spreading over Michael’s features, “I’m supposed to serve Beholding and half the time I don’t even know where the hell I am anymore. I just have all this pub quiz knowledge worming its way into my hairline like -- “

ESCHEWING YOUR DIVINITY, ARCHIVIST? Michael giggled, and it fell like hail over corrugated metal roofing, BEWARE AT WHAT YOU MAKE YOUR WISHES

“I don’t wish anything,” Jon huffed. He could feel a crick forming in his neck, and propped himself up on his elbows. The Distortion was tracing a fingertip over his chest in swirls that rose and fell like the moonsung tide, and if he felt his skin split under the attention and his blood bloom forth like rows of spring violets breaking through the early morning frost, he said nothing of it.

“Will you stay?” he said suddenly, surprised at his own boldness, “The night, I mean. I think I sleep better when you’re around.”

Michael’s features lost their wile, meeting for a moment at their axis in surprise. It stopped its ministration.

IT IS NOT IN MY NATURE, it said softly, like it was trying to convince itself.

“I want you to stay,” said Jon, all at once aware that he was pleading, and then…

“Stay,” from the back of his throat where power dwelled, expelled into the air before him and looped around the impossible shape that straddled his chest. Michael laughed, cackling like a flurry of intestinal hemorrhages.

OH ARCHIVIST, YOU REALLY SHOULD HAVE LEARNED BETTER BY NOW, it trilled, fits of giggles worming through its words, raising in pitch like daggers turned upwards unto heaven. 

It braced its sharp, contorted hands over Jon’s chest, pulling up his shirt, taking skin with it. He screamed. He cowered. He arched his back up from the couch beneath him and met Michael’s lowered head halfway, its mouth pressing to the half healed wound in his gut.

Its lips met the ragged edges of his skin and the two intertwined. Ball lightning is an unexplained atmospheric electrical phenomenon described as luminescent, spherical objects that vary from pea-sized to several meters in diameter. Though usually associated with thunderstorms, the phenomenon is said to last considerably longer than the split-second flash of a lightning bolt. Some nineteenth century reports describe balls that eventually explode and leave behind an odor of sulfur. Jon lowered his hand to rest against the back of the Distortion’s head, and from somewhere beneath its spiraling forest fire curls, he felt something reach up to interlace with his fingers. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth together. A bed of nails rose up to meet his back and an iron maiden closed its doors over his chest. His feet walked over burning coals. His mouth twisted in an unnatural shape to call out a real name.

“Michael,” he cried, and it laughed. It laughed and it laughed until suddenly its lips were not at the edges of his reopening wound. Weren’t on its face. Weren’t pressed like steel wool against Jon’s. He felt it inside of him, crawling from his gut up through the cavernous expanse of his chest, ripping through the meat like a symphony. The dozens of bore hole scars across his skin took a shuddering breath as it swarmed out of them like a colony of termites. Jon felt it spilling from his throat to lay across his chest like a Columbian necktie. It poured over and through his right hand from beneath his curling fingernails. It shone through the hole in his belly like ribbons of Northern lights.

It burned. It was. They were. They WERE. Together.


End file.
